


Fame and Misfortune

by avantegarda



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor, Kids, elves being awkward teenagers is all you will find here, maggie is a dumb idiot and i would die for him, musical theatre for absolutely no reason, plot? I don't know her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:14:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avantegarda/pseuds/avantegarda
Summary: Celebrity, Maglor would argue, is very much a double-edged sword.





	1. Carnations

It was strange to be performing without his father in the crowd. Fëanor had been at every one of Maglor’s performances since he was a child, and Maglor had become accustomed to his father finding him after the last song, loudly congratulating him, and discussing areas for improvement on the way home.

But Fëanor was at home, looking after the children while Nerdanel visited her parents in the north, and Maglor was left to perform at Lord Maitar’s soirée without any family in the audience at all.

It was an  _ honor _ , he kept telling himself. Lord Maitar, an old friend of Finarfin’s, was one of the most well-known artistic patrons in the city, and being asked to perform at one of his parties was something many musicians aspired to for years. The fact that he, an adolescent boy who had only performed in public a few times, was part of this illustrious occasion must mean that he really was talented.

So there was no reason to feel so nervous he thought he might faint. No reason at all.

As it happened, his actual performance went fairly well. Playing music was, in fact, one of the few times Maglor actually felt comfortable in his own skin, rather than stumbling about like a puppy whose feet were too big and legs too long. He managed to get through four songs without major incident, and was greeted at the end by polite, enthusiastic applause.

Once he was back offstage and mingling with the other guests, though, Maglor was beginning to understand why his father had always hurried him home immediately after performing. When one hung about at parties, people always wanted to  _ talk  _ to one, and ask dozens of questions that were extremely difficult to answer, and after an hour of this Maglor desperately wanted to run home and fall asleep in the bathtub.

But of course, he could hardly manage to sneak away when his host was approaching him, smiling in a way that indicated he had a lot to say.

“Prince Makalaurë!” Lord Maitar exclaimed, clapping Maglor on the back (and nearly knocking him over). “A brilliant performance, as usual. I remember when you were a tiny boy just learning to play the lute, and look at you now! You’ll be regarded as the finest musician in Aman in a few years, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Maglor vainly tried to keep from blushing, and managed a polite nod. “Thank you, Lord Maitar,” he said, voice still slightly hoarse from singing and making conversation even after a few glasses of wine. “It’s very kind of you to say so.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it, my boy, it is Varda’s own truth. But my goodness, you must forgive me, I haven’t yet introduced you to your greatest admirer.” He ushered forward the person who had been standing behind him—a pretty adolescent girl with dark skin and honey-blonde curls, clutching an enormous bouquet of carnations. “This is my daughter, Liriel. She’s been looking forward to talking to you all evening.”

“You were  _ amazing, _ ” Liriel gushed, shoving the bouquet into Maglor’s arms. “I’ve never heard anyone sing like you.”

“Oh...er, thank you,” said Maglor. His fingers felt suddenly slippery, and he awkwardly shifted the flowers to keep from dropping them. Was he going mad, or could he actually  _ hear  _ his own heart pounding in his ears? “I’m glad you enjoyed the concert.”

“Enjoyed it? I loved it!” Liriel looked as though she was resisting the urge to throw her arms around him. “I nearly cried during your last song, and that line  _ all that is left is ashes of love... _ how did you come up with that?”

“Well, I...I couldn’t say, really, it just sort of...came to me...listen, Lord Maitar, it really was wonderfully kind of you to host this.” Maglor rubbed at his nose, which was beginning to itch a bit. “But I’m afraid I really must head home now. Mother is still very keen on me getting home at a reasonable hour…”

“Now, now, you mustn’t leave just yet!” Lord Maitar declared. “There are still plenty of people here who want to congratulate you, and I am sure Liriel has loads of questions for you...gracious, my boy, are you all right?”

Following his gaze, Maglor looked down with alarm at his hands, which were rapidly becoming covered in unsightly red blotches. The itching in his nose worsened, and before he could stop it he let out an atrociously loud sneeze. Maitar, Liriel, and everyone else around them stared at him in horror, the closest ones taking a slight step back.

“Oh, no. I am so sorry, I just…” Maglor sneezed again, managing to cover his nose this time. “...I think it must be something to do with these flowers. Dreadfully sorry, really, but I think I... _ achoo! _ I have to go.”

He shoved the bouquet back into a bewildered Liriel’s arms and fled, telling himself that the tears stinging his eyes were from the flowers, nothing more. 

“It was a disaster, Maitimo,” Maglor groaned, collapsing onto what he referred to as “his” side of Maedhros’ bed. “Absolutely humiliating.”

Maedhros sighed and closed the heavy book he was reading with a thump. “I find that hard to believe. What did you do, break a string while playing?”

“No, the music part was really all right. But I had some sort of horrid reaction to the flowers Lord Maitar’s daughter gave me after the performance, and came out in hives all over and kept  _ sneezing. _ Everyone is going to think I’m a complete idiot now.” Maglor sniffed and rubbed his nose, which still itched slightly. “ _ Especially  _ Liriel.”

“That’s odd,” Maedhros said. “I’ve heard of animals having reactions to plants like that, but never Elves. What did our parents say about it?”

“Father reckons it was just nerves. He says that when your mind and spirit are upset, then your body is likely to be upset by odd things. But that isn’t the  _ point _ , Nelyo,” Maglor groaned. “The  _ point  _ is, how am I ever going to become a successful musician if I turn red and start sneezing like mad every time someone congratulates me?”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Makalaurë. Remember, you are still very young.”

“I am thirty-three. By the time Father was my age he’d already designed half the buildings in Tirion and invented a new metal alloy, and do you think  _ he  _ got embarrassed when someone praised him? No, he probably told them that he already knew that he was amazing, and then locked himself back in his workshop.”

“Then perhaps you ought to take a leaf out of Father’s book,” offered Maedhros. “Adopt some of his well-deserved arrogance. Now, now, I am not saying you need to go about bragging all the time,” he said quickly, before Maglor could protest. “But if you tell yourself that you  _ are  _ talented and you  _ deserve  _ all the praise and acclaim you receive—which is quite true, incidentally—then before long you’ll start to believe it. And then you’ll feel only joy and gratitude when nice young girls give you bouquets.”

“I suppose that is worth a try,” said Maglor. “But I am never touching carnations again, I can tell you that. That’ll be a new rule for all my performances: no carnations, ever.”

“We can have Grandfather make it a royal decree.” Maedhros blew out the candle and flopped back onto his pillow. “But now, Makalaurë, I’d appreciate it if you put your talents to good use and sang your poor exhausted brother to sleep. You are not the only one who has had a long day, you know.”

With a grin, Maglor cleared his throat and softly began to sing.


	2. Orchids

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Maglor declared.

“Well, do it out the window if you must,” Celegorm said, not looking up from the map he was studying. “If we are being forced to share a room, I would rather you not muck it up. Besides, I don’t think Indis’ relatives will be too pleased if you get sick all over their finest rug.”

“Well, Father would probably say it serves them right. You remember what a fuss he made over us staying here. If I wasn’t performing at the Festival, I don’t think he would have brought us here at all.” Maglor swallowed hard. “Am I mad for wishing he hadn’t?”

“Yes, you absolutely are. I mean, really, Makalaurë. You’ve performed in public dozens of times; surely you’re used to it by now?”

Maglor shook his head. “Not like this, Tyelko. In Tirion, playing at Grandfather’s parties and those sorts of things... _ that  _ I can handle. But we are in Valimar, and it is the most important festival of the year, and not only is our family going to be there but the entire Vanyarin royal court, and the Valar themselves. The  _ Valar,  _ Tyelko. I mean, what if they all hate my singing?”

“Cheer up, old boy, of course they will not. This is  _ you  _ we’re talking about. Besides, even if the Valar don’t like it, the girls certainly will.” Celegorm pretended to swoon, collapsing onto the bed. “Oh, Makalaurë, you’re so  _ dreamy  _ and  _ deep!  _ Marry me,  _ please!” _ he cried, in a thoroughly irritating falsetto voice. “Of course you’re not half as handsome as Nelyo, but you make up for it by never keeping your mouth shut for more than two minutes…”

“Oh, hush, Tyelko. Stop being a child,” Maglor snapped. He turned back to the mirror, nervously fussing with his fashionably arranged hair (pulled back into several braids on one side, left loose and curling on the other). “Do I look all right?”

Celegorm tilted his head to the side thoughtfully and took in his brother’s richly embroidered midnight-blue tunic, tight black trousers, and the slightly gaudy opal necklace Fëanor had made for him. “You look overdressed and ridiculous, like you always do. But I expect the general public will think you look well enough.”

“ _ Overdressed,  _ am I? Of course you would think that, since you can’t even be bothered to put on a shirt half the time. Please tell me that what you have on now is not what you are going to wear this evening.”

Celegorm glanced down in surprise at the muddy brown tunic and leggings he was wearing. “Why, what’s wrong with these? I am properly covered up, aren’t I?”

“I honestly have no idea why I bother talking to you about anything,” Maglor said with a sigh. “You are unbelievably immature.”

“And I suppose now that you are forty-six you think of yourself as quite the adult. Well, just because Father got married at forty-six doesn’t mean  _ you  _ are mature enough to do anything other than…

“Tyelko.” Maglor’s voice was no longer teasing; instead, it sounded as though he was holding back tears. “Please. I can’t...I don’t know if I can do this.”

Rolling his eyes, Celegorm stood and roughly put an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “Oh, Makalaurë. For goodness’ sake, you’ll do brilliantly and we’ll all be very, very proud of you. And if you make some silly mistake,  _ I  _ will get onstage and start singing and make you look brilliant in comparison, all right?”

Maglor smiled shakily and gave Celegorm a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Tyelko. It’s good to know I can rely on you.”

“Yuck.” Celegorm hurriedly wiped off his cheek and snatched Maglor’s comb. “Now get out of here, I need to get dressed.”

The sprawling royal gardens were lit up by dozens of glowing lanterns, and as the finest Vanyarin wine was flowing freely, all those present were in very high spirits. Celegorm took small, careful sips from his own glass, the third of the evening; Fëanor had very strict rules about the younger children drinking, and one of them was that Celegorm was absolutely not allowed to have more than three drinks per evening.

“Where’s Makalaurë?” asked Caranthir, who had been trailing behind him all evening. At twenty, the fourth brother was a precocious child who seemed to specialize in being underfoot, which put a considerable damper on Celegorm’s plans to sneak more wine and dance with girls. 

“Being fawned over, of course,” Celegorm said, jerking his head towards their brother, who was surrounded by a small group of admirers. “Do you suppose all those girls would like him so much if they knew how often he talked with food in his mouth?”

“Probably not. Can I have a sip of your wine?”

“Absolutely not. You know Father’s rule: no wine until you turn thirty.” With a frown, Celegorm glanced back towards Maglor. “I just can’t understand it, Moryo. I mean yes, of course, he is very talented, but other than that, what is the  _ appeal?  _ He’s entirely too skinny, he’s terrible at all sports, and half of what he says is just utter nonsense.”

“You’re jealous, that’s what you are,” Caranthir said, grinning wickedly. “Green with envy, as Mother says. I expect you would like to have all the girls following  _ you  _ around, telling you how strong and handsome and clever you are, and trying to kiss you, and all those other disgusting things? Don’t feel too bad, at least Huan thinks you’re brilliant.”

“Hush, Moryo,” Celegorm snapped. “You have no idea what you are talking about. I am  _ not  _ jealous of Makalaurë, he’s certainly welcome to all the attention if it keeps him from wailing to me about how nervous he is. But we’ve got to stop talking about him now, because he is coming over here.”

Maglor had indeed detached himself from his circle of well-wishers, and drifted towards where Celegorm and Curufin stood, his gait slightly unsteady. His cheeks were flushed, and there was a bright pink orchid rather messily shoved into his dark curls. “Ah, boys, there you are. Having a good time?”

Caranthir wrinkled his nose. “Why do you have a flower in your hair?”

“Have I got a flower in my hair?” Maglor patted the side of his head in surprise. “So I do. I suppose someone must have put it there. Thank goodness it isn’t a carnation, or I would look a fright.”

“I am surprised you managed to drag yourself away from your admirers over there,” said Celegorm. “What on earth do you talk to them about, anyway? There are only so many questions one can ask about music.”

“I really don’t know,” said Maglor. “Usually I just start talking about whatever comes to mind and go on until someone makes me stop. It is a bit exhausting, though. I say, Tyelko, can I perhaps make a request? Next time we go to something like this, could you bring that beast of yours along so everyone will want to pet him and be distracted from talking to me?”

“I don’t understand you at all, Makalaurë,” Celegorm said, shaking his head. “Not three hours ago you were fussing and on the verge of tears because you thought no one would like your performance, and now here you are complaining because everyone liked it  _ too  _ much. How do you explain that?”

“That, my dear brother, is called the ‘artistic temperament,’ and it means that nothing I say is required to make any sense at all.” Maglor winked. “But, you know, I really don’t say enough how much I appreciate you lot tolerating me.”

“Yes, we really are unbelievably patient. I know how you can make it up to me, though.”

“And how is that?”

Celegorm held out his empty glass. “Go get me another drink, O Revered Artist. They’ll never limit  _ you  _ to three glasses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, I absolutely adore writing about Maglor and Celegorm's relationship. They couldn't be more different! But they love each other! My babies!!!
> 
> And of course, as usual, I absolutely love hearing from you guys. <3


	3. Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bit focuses on two very important Canon Facts: Feanor is a Good Dad, and Maglor invented musical theatre (source: it would be funny).

Despite the fact that no one knew exactly what it  _ was,  _ every single seat in the theatre for Maglor’s new show sold out within a week of it being announced. Maglor’s family had a slightly better idea of what they were about to see, if only just.

“It’s called ‘Bad for Business,’ and it is a  _ musical play,”  _ Maglor had eagerly explained. “It’s going to be absolutely brilliant.”

“And what, pray tell, is a ‘musical play?’” Caranthir had asked. ‘It sounds horribly pretentious.”

“It is  _ not,  _ it’s good fun. Really it’s just like a regular sort of play, but there are songs in it that sort of summarize the events and emotions going on, and...do  _ not  _ give me that look, Tyelko, I know you are incredibly uncultured but plenty of other people will like it.”

The rest of the boys had remained skeptical, but Fëanor knew full well that the show would be a triumph. After all, he had seen how hard Maglor had been working on this production, locking himself in his room for days at a time and frequently forgetting to eat and sleep. And, of course, it was hardly as though any of  _ his  _ sons could create anything that was not brilliant. 

How odd it was, Fëanor reflected now, as he and the rest of the family made their way to the finest seats in the theatre. For so many years his second son had seemed almost afraid of success; worried, perhaps, that he was disappointing his family by not becoming a craftsman. And here Maglor was, barely a century old and already being called the greatest singer of the Noldor, and Fëanor felt as though his heart would burst from pride.

_Bad for Business_ was, without a doubt, a charming tale. The story centered around a young woman of noble family who, fleeing from an overbearing suitor, talked her way into a job at a remote country inn, and fell madly in love with the good-for-nothing son of a rich brewer (played by Maglor himself). Naturally, the couple faced obstacles at every turn, from families, friends, and ex-lovers, and the music was in turns sparkling and heart-wrenching.

And at the end, when the young lovers were finally brought together and the curtain fell, there was a brief moment of pure, stunned silence before the theatre exploded into deafening, thunderous applause.

Maglor hurried straight to Fëanor the minute he was able to come out from backstage, pushing through a crowd of well-wishers, his expression both eager and nervous. “Father! What did you think?”

“Well,” Fëanor said pensively. “I certainly have seen  _ worse  _ shows in my life.”

Maglor’s face fell. “I see. But...have you seen many  _ better  _ ones?”

“Quite possibly,” said Fëanor, before his face broke into a broad grin. “But somehow, I cannot remember when. You have truly accomplished something here, Makalaurë.” He nodded at the enormous bouquet of red roses in his son’s arms, which had been tossed onstage at the end of the show. “And it seems the rest of Tirion agrees with me.”

Maglor smiled in relief, and shook his head incredulously. “I know. Really, who would have thought I would get this far?”

“Oh, I did. Without a doubt,” Fëanor said. “Do you know why I used to hurry you home after all your performances when you were younger?”

“Because it was past my bedtime?”

“Well, yes, but not only that. With your voice and skill, Makalaurë, you were never going to  _ not  _ become the most celebrated musician in Aman. But I tried to delay that inevitability, for the same reason I raised you boys outside the city where you wouldn’t be revered as royalty every day—because fame is a burden for children, and I wanted to spare you that for as long as possible.”

“Yes, I suppose that was for the best. I can’t imagine how much odder I would have turned out if I’d been in the public eye my entire life.” Maglor cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. “And now?”

“Now, my boy, I think you more than deserve every bit of praise you receive. And I will not tolerate any false modesty from you, either.” Fëanor pulled Maglor into his arms and kissed him on the top of his head. “Not only are you the most talented artist of your age, but you are  _ my son,  _ and that makes you brilliant. Don’t ever forget that.”

“Thank you, Father,” Maglor mumbled against Fëanor’s shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Makalaurë. And I am very proud of you.”

“Oy, Makalaurë!” called a voice from behind them. “Are you coming?”

Maglor pulled back from his father and sheepishly glanced over his shoulder at the small gaggle of young people eagerly waving to him. “Sorry, Father, I think the rest of the cast wants me to come and say hello to a few people. If you don’t mind…?”

Fëanor chuckled. “Of course, Makalaurë. Go greet your public. Ah, but first, hold on just a moment.” He took the bouquet and plucked out one red rose, tucking it behind Maglor’s ear. “There. Now you look just as romantic as your many admirers expect you to.”

Maglor grinned and gave his father another quick hug, before turning on his heel and ambling off towards his friends. Fëanor watched him go, shaking his head as he felt his wife’s arm curl around his own.

“They grow up so quickly, do they not?” he said wistfully. 

Nerdanel snorted. “‘Grow up’ is putting it generously. Just you wait, he will stay out all night and lie about like a cat in the sunlight all day tomorrow and be utterly unhelpful.”

“Ah, let the lad be irresponsible for a while, Nerdanel,” Fëanor replied. “He has earned it.”


End file.
